Conventions
by CrankWindPencil
Summary: Some boundaries are not meant to be crossed. (rated for suicidal themes)


**So this happened.**

**Do I own Cloud Atlas? **

***hysterical laughter***

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><p>Funny thing, guns, Robert thinks as he studies Vyvyan's pistol, held in his hand. He's sitting in the bathtub of his hotel room with the door closed and locked, and he's absolutely certain that the gun hadn't been this heavy when he'd stolen it from Ayrs. It's somehow gained a considerable amount of weight in this particular moment. He turns it over in his hands again and lets out a long breath. There's no use in delaying this, really. It's already two or three minutes past five, past when his letter to Sixsmith says he'd shot himself, and, for some reason, he can't <em>bear<em> the thought of lying to the other man like this. He fumbles with the gun, usually articulate hands struggling, somehow manages to cock the gun, and forces it into his mouth. The metal is cold against the roof of his mouth and he can't quite help but notice how the barrel makes his shuddering breaths audible.

Finger tight around the trigger, Robert thinks that it's a fortunate thing that he isn't the good, God-fearing boy that Pater had raised and expected him to be. Even if he had been at some point, he's certainly pissed away any chance of redemption by this point. He shakes his head and any thought of Pater away. He doesn't want those to be his last thoughts. He's not exactly sure _what_ he wants his last thoughts to be of. Quite possibly there's just no right way to go about this.

Sixsmith.

It occurs to him that he'd like his last thoughts to be of Sixsmith.

Singular focus on his awkward, scientific, musically-blundering Sixsmith, Robert's finger slowly starts to squeeze the trigger, and-

"Damnit, Robert, where are you?!"

The voice surprises Robert and he flinches so hard that he nearly pulls the trigger.

"Robert?"

Robert looks to gun, still in his hand.

Shit.

How could he possibly explain this? Sixsmith is perceptive, will see right through any lies that Robert tries to placate him with. It's not as thought there are too many endings for his situation right now anyways.

_Shit._

The bathroom's doorknob shook as Sixsmith tried to turn it.

"Robert?"

Beat.

"What?" Robert snaps.

This wasn't how it was supposed to go. Sixsmith wasn't supposed to know for a while longer at least, he wasn't supposed to find out like this,

"I-" Sixsmith falters, taken aback by Robert's first word to him in months. "What are you doing?"

"Showering."

"The water isn't running." Sixsmith notes. Robert curses under his breath.

"I finished a couple of minutes ago." he supplies. Sixsmith hesitates.

"...Why does the clerk downstairs have my waistcoat?" he asks, voice cautious.

"Place holder until I can pay him. Insurance."

He's still in the bathtub and he still can't think of a way out of this.

"Look, I'll-" he starts before he's cut off.

"Let me in."

"I'm hardly decent." Robert replies. He's starting to panic, but thinks he passed it off as incredulity. Sixsmith looses a sharp laugh.

"Since when has that mattered to you? Even so, just wrap yourself in a towel."

"Sixsmith-"

"Unlock the door, or I swear to you I'll open it myself."

Robert hesitates. Sixsmith can't know. He can't. Possibly he'd written something, said a bit too much about his situation in his last letter, but he can't have picked up on _this._

He can't quite think of another reason that Sixsmith would threaten to force the door open, though.

"Robert."

He can't think, can't speak.

"Robert!"

He doesn't know what he would say, even if he could get it out.

The door shakes as Sixsmith pushes his weight against it. Not much happens, and Robert can hear him outside as he takes several steps back. This time, he rams his shoulder into the door.

This time, the door swings open on its hinges and Sixsmith stumbles into the bathroom. He sees Robert, looks as though he's about to say something, then sees Vyvyan's gun still in his hand.

A look of shock crosses his features and Robert refuses to meet his gaze. It's an impossibly long fraction of a second before Sixsmith regains himself.

"...Explain." the word is choked out. Robert blinks.

"There's nothing _to_ explain." he replies steadily.

"Bullshit, Robert!" Sixsmith exclaims, surprising the both of them with the force in his voice. "Why were you- what-...Give me the gun."

Robert makes no effort to do so, but doesn't resist when Sixsmith pulls the gun from his hand and pockets it, either. He hardly notices it in fact.

Sixsmith runs a hand through his carefully combed hair, causing it to stick up.

"...Good to see you, Sixsmith." Robert mutters.

_"Don't."_ Snaps Sixsmith. "I did not come all the way from London to find you dead, Robert, and that's exactly what would have happened had I gotten here any later. _Don't play games."_

Robert tenses at Sixsmith's words.

"Does it look as though I was playing, Sixsmith?" he challenges.

"You are now." Sixsmith retorts.

Seven beats of terse silence in six-eight time, Robert counts.

"Why, Robert?"

Robert snorts, despite the weight of the situation.

"Name disgraced, broke, disowned, alone,"

There's something else too, an emptiness in his chest that he's not been able to shake off, hasn't been able to for months, but he can never find the words to explain it and this time is no exception.

"...I finished the Sextet."

"I don't give a damn about the Sextet!"

Robert's eyes widen a fraction of an inch and Sixsmith realizes what he's said. The Sextet is to Robert what the atom is to him. The Sextet is probably the reason Robert hadn't shot himself months ago. The Sextet is _everything._ And he does care, he really does, but he's caught up in the moment and everything in his perception is hopelessly skewed out of proportion.

"I'm sorry, Robert," the apology floods from him. "I do care, it's-"

Robert stands up in the tub unsteadily, taking Sixsmith by surprise.

"I'll play it for you." he says, stepping out of the tub and onto he bathroom floor, starting towards the piano in the other room.

Sixsmith stares blankly.

He wants to grab Robert by the shoulders and shake him and kiss him untill he's, if not okay, at least better than he is now.

But that's not what Robert wants to do.

Rufus knows that nothing on heaven or earth can stop Robert Frobisher from doing exactly what he wants to do, when he wants to do it.

And right now, Robert wants to play his Sextet.

He follows the other man from the bathroom and sees him plopped down on the piano's bench, shuffling through sheets and sheets of staff paper. His hands are trembling as he does so and Rufus frowns. He never should have let Robert eave on his own. Not that there had been much choice in the matter, but still-

His train of thought is cut off as Robert starts playing.

Rufus Sixsmith is a man of science. He's proven, to himself and to Robert too many to count, that he has not the slightest inkling of musical sense.

And yet...

And yet as Robert's delicate fingers skitter over the piano's keys, painting the Sextet with black and white tones, he can hear where the violins play, can feel the cellos, the violas, _everything._

"...It's beautiful..." Rufus murmmers. Robert looks up to him for just a moment, a slight smirk pulling at his lips.

Rufus doesn't know exactly to think

The music changes into something faster, more lilting. Sixsmith isn't entirely sure what to make of it. It's different from anything else he's ever heard before, seems like the door between time and music, and pulls him to somewhere he's never been before.

The piece slows again, falls back to a more solid feel, and before he knows it, it's over and Robert is standing up, leaning against the side of the piano, gaze halfway between Sixsmith and the floor.

Rufus, for his part, watches Robert closely.

"...You can't do this." he says quietly.

"Can't do what?" Robert asks, tone light.

The casual nonchalance that Robert speaks with is the final straw for Rufus.

"A minute more and you'd have been dead, Robert! You can't just prance over to your bloody piano and pretend as though nothing happened!"

"Nothing _did_ happen, though." Robert retorts. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I am still alive, no?"

"Not if-"

Robert grabs Rufus in a tight embrace and before he knows what's happening, Rufus' face is buried into the crook of Frobisher's shoulder, breaths coming as ragged gasps as warm tears leak onto Robert's top.

"Don't you dare, Robert," he chokes out. "Don't you dare do that to me, I don't know what I would do if-" he breaks off, leaning heavily on Robert.

"The boundaries between life and death are but convictions, my dear Sixsmith." Robert mutters.

Sixsmith holds him tighter.

"Stay within those boundaries for once in your life, Robert."

A solid minute of silence ensues. Sixsmith bites his lip nervously.

"...You have more to offer the world than the Sextet, Robert."

Pause.

"Okay." the word is barely a whisper.

"I don't know wat I'd do without you."

"Okay."

"You deserve to be happy."

"Okay."

"I love you, Robert."

Rufus can feel the other man smile through his shirt.

"Oh, Sixsmith, you sentimental old fool."

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><p><strong>Planning on turning this into a little series of oneshots with Robert and Rufus. They probably won't be in any particular order, but they'll definitely show up on here. I'm actually part of the way through one story right now and will try to post it sometime soon. Anywho, thanks for reading, have a fantastic day, and DFTBA!<strong>


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